


Enemies Foreign and Domestic

by extasiswings



Series: In This White House [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Bisexual Male Character, Developing Relationship, F/M, Male-Female Friendship, Slow Build, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers-centric, West Wing AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Election Night, 2012</p><p>On the television, every channel is calling the election for Rogers/Wilson and the room around Steve erupts in cheers as people start clapping him on the shoulder and offering congratulations. Meanwhile, his eyes are glued to the screen flashing the electoral totals and his stomach drops like he's just started the descent of a steep roller coaster as he can't help thinking, <em>what the hell did I just do?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And It's Surely To Their Credit

_Election Night, 2012_

On the television, every channel is calling the election for Rogers/Wilson and the room around Steve erupts in cheers as people start clapping him on the shoulder and offering congratulations. Meanwhile, his eyes are glued to the screen flashing the electoral totals and his stomach drops like he's just started the descent of a steep roller coaster as he can't help thinking, _what the hell did I just do?_

 

 

Growing up, all Steve Rogers ever wanted was to be an artist. Small, skinny, and asthmatic, he wasn't a very active kid (although God knows there wasn't a fight he managed to stay out of) but he could draw better than anything or so his teachers said. It wasn't uncommon to see him with graphite-stained fingers and bruised knuckles (the latter which never failed to make his mother tsk in censure, often before ruffling his hair and running out the door for a late nursing shift, leaving him in the care of May Reilly, their young neighbor), particularly after Bucky Barnes moved to the neighborhood.

The two boys were inseparable from about age nine onwards, opposites in looks and activity preferences but the same in every other way that matters. After graduating high school, Steve went to NYU on a full scholarship and Bucky joined the military.

Four years later, Sarah Rogers was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer. And everything changed.

 

 

 _Somalia, December 1992_  

Steve hates the military. He’s good at it, that much he’s been told more than once, but his job grates at him every day. Somalia is marginally better than Saudi Arabia and Iraq though, in good part because he’s a hell of a lot more comfortable with an operation that’s sanctioned by the UN.

“I would fold if I were you,” a voice murmurs in his ear, equally familiar hands settling on his shoulders.

Steve blinks at the cards in his hands and then tosses them down on the table. “Yeah, I fold.”

“That’s cheating, Carter,” Dum-Dum Dugan groans from the other side of the table. “I only have so many joys in this place and fleecing Cap here at poker is one of them.”

“And when have I ever wanted to give you joy, Dugan?” Peggy counters, amusement heavy in her voice. She’s a vision in red when Steve finally turns to face her, a wide grin breaking over his lips. It’s been eight months since he’s seen her, and back then he’d been dealing with the fact that Bucky was MIA and presumed dead. It hadn’t been a great time for either of them.

“Merry Christmas, Captain,” she greets. “Can I steal you away, or do you need these boys to take more of your money first?”

“I’m not that bad, you know. I’ve gotten better,” he replies as he pushes back his chair and stands.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Steve waves goodbye to the Commandos over his shoulder when she takes his arm and leads him out of the tent, waiting until they’re far enough away that he can’t hear the teasing that had followed them before slipping his free hand into her hair and kissing her. When he pulls away, he’s certain her lipstick is probably smeared across his mouth, but when she smiles at him, he really can’t be bothered to reach up and wipe it away.

“Hi,” he breathes, his hand falling from her hair to her waist. “Merry Christmas. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. Got my orders at the beginning of the week,” Peggy replies.

“I missed you.”

“I know. I got your letters.”

“Cheeky.”

“Always.”

She’s quiet for a moment as she presses closer, fingers curving into the lapels of his jacket. The silence isn’t a bad thing—Steve’s grateful for the opportunity to simply wrap his arms around her again. It would be nice if they could manage to see each other outside of a warzone, but it’s enough as is.

“How’s your mother?”

His smile slips. “I saw her when I was on leave for Thanksgiving. She’s…I don’t know. It’s not good. Bucky’s with her a lot, but—”

“But he’s not you.”

“Yeah.” Steve sighs heavily and presses his lips to her hair. “Sometimes I wish I had thought of a better way to pay her medical bills than joining the military. It worked, but I’m here and she’s at home and I just…” _Hate this._

Peggy’s quiet again, but she slips her arms around his waist and rests her head on his chest. Later he’ll ask about what she’s been doing for MI6 and she’ll tell him the parts that aren’t classified. Later she’ll take him back to her quarters and kiss him again and again until his uniform is off and her dress is on the floor and they’re tangled in her sheets, sweaty and sated. Later he won’t hate what he’s doing quite so much because at least it brought him to her.

For now he just holds her in the quiet dark.

(His mother dies three months later and he barely makes it home in time to say goodbye. He quits after that, takes his nightmares and his commendations and his grief and goes back to Brooklyn. He tries to get back to before, to art and creativity and life, but he can’t. He goes to law school instead, finds new ways to fight the bullies of the world. He becomes a public defender because he thinks it’s the right thing to do. And his life moves on)

 

 

Capitol Hill, January 2011

Steve closes his laptop and rolls his shoulders, wincing when something crackles.

“You’re getting old, Rogers,” he says under his breath as he gets to his feet.

“May?” He calls, stepping out into the hall. “Am I done for the day?”

May Parker looks up from her desk and smiles sympathetically. “One more meeting I’m afraid. It was last minute and I’m afraid they were rather insistent.”

“Who is it with?”

“Nick Fury.”

Steve blinks. He blinks again.

“Why does the head of the DNC want a meeting with me?”

“Lucky for both of us, you’re about to find out,” a voice answers from the doorway.

Between the eyepatch and the black leather jacket, Nick Fury is a sight to behold. Steve’s only met the man once or twice, but he’s been at least mildly intimidated every time. Steve clears his throat and nods, snapping out of staring and gesturing at his office door.

“Come in, sir. Welcome. It’s always a pleasure.”

“Trust me, son. The pleasure is mine.”

Two minutes later, Steve’s sitting at his desk in stunned silence as Fury stares at him bemusedly.

“President,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound any less insane coming out of his own mouth than it had coming out of Fury’s. “You want me to run for president.”

“Yes.”

The thing is, although it may be unexpected, the longer Steve tries to wrap his head around it, the more he can understand why Fury is asking. (Not asking really, more telling because you don’t actually say no to the head of the DNC when they ask you to run for something unless you have a really good reason and Steve isn’t sure _I don’t want to_ counts). He hears the whispers and the jokes on the Hill about Captain America. He knows about the websites and social media pages that cropped up after his second Senate run, after he’d given “But what do I know? I’m just a kid from Brooklyn,” as a scathing, unscripted response to a speech by his opponent Brock Rumlow calling him out-of-touch and soft on crime. He knows that his voting record in the Senate has been impressive and consistent and honest.

But. He doesn’t want to be president. He didn’t even really want to be a Senator, but he’d been in the right place at the right time and his friends and neighbors, his community had asked him to run. He never asked for any of it though, never sought it out. President of the United States. The thought makes his chest tight.

“Tony Stark—”

“Tony Stark is the Speaker of the House and will stay there until the House Republicans drag him off of that podium kicking and screaming,” Fury replies. “If I were to ask him, he’d probably laugh me out of his office. He’s exactly where we need him, besides which, if he ran it would be a long, difficult, ugly race that he probably wouldn’t win anyway.”

_And what makes you think I will?_

Fury pushes back his chair and stands. “You think about it, Rogers. I’ll come back next week and I expect an answer when I do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see myself out.”

The door closes behind Fury and Steve leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. President of the United States. Jesus Christ. He’s not sure how long he spends lost in thought, but a soft knock on the office door snaps him out of it.

“Steven?”

“Yes, May?”

She opens the door and stands there in silence, waiting. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.

“They want me to run for president,” he says.

“Imagine that.” Her tone is dry enough that he laughs in spite of himself.

“I really don’t think I can—” May tsks and walks over to his desk, perching on the edge of it as she reaches over to ruffle his hair. It reminds him so much of his mother that his throat gets tight.

“Do you remember what you told me when Ben and I were getting ready to take in Peter?”

 

_“We always said we would never have kids. I don’t know how to raise a child.”_

_“I don’t know about that. Between you and my ma, I didn’t turn out too bad.”_

_“Steven…”_

_“May. Has there ever been a situation you couldn’t handle? You can do anything you put your mind to. This is no different.”_

 

Steve nods.

“Look at me,” she says gently. When he glances up, she’s smiling. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Steve Rogers. This is no different.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not a bit.”

(She both is and isn’t wrong, he comes to find out. Fury sends him Natasha Romanoff—he’s always found it difficult to trust her and he doesn’t understand the strange relationship she seems to have with Bucky, but he respects the hell out of her—and she brings on Matt Murdock who steals Foggy Nelson away from a big New York City law firm. Steve himself calls Bucky in because if he’s doing this, he needs at least one person he knows is completely on his side. Darcy Lewis is the last addition—Tony Stark calls him personally to inform him that he’s taking the best damn press secretary in the country and that he had better treat her right—and by the time the New Hampshire primary comes around, Steve is a lot closer to being on board with this campaign than he started off)

 

 

The White House, February 2013

President of the United States is a terrible job. If Steve hadn’t been fairly certain of that before his inauguration, he certainly is a month after. Of course, if the job was easy, more people would want it.

(When he starts thinking like that, a voice in the back of his mind likes to remind him that he didn’t actually want it at all, but he tries to ignore that)

The first month is a whirlwind of meetings and introductions and addresses, and yet somehow it really doesn’t feel like they’re doing any actual governing. Which is frustrating because helping people was really the main reason behind why he agreed to run in the first place.

The formality grates on him as well. Before, sure, there were plenty of people who called him Senator Rogers, but most people used his name. Now everything is “Mr. President” or “Sir” and Steve knows it’s supposed to be out of respect, but it makes him feel like he has to be the symbol, the office, not a person. When he gets up in the morning it feels almost like he’s putting on a mask and locking himself away and that’s…if that’s how he feels after a month, how is he supposed to make it through four (or maybe even eight) years?

“Mr. President,” May calls over the intercom. “Natasha’s here to see you with the new National Security Adviser.”

“What happened to the old National Security Adviser?” (He regrets asking it as soon as the words leave his mouth but to be entirely honest, he’s met so many people over the past month that he doubts he could pick the National Security Adviser out of a lineup)

“He died, sir. Last week.”

Steve blinks…considers...well, that’s a little embarrassing. Moving on. “Right. I knew that. Send them in.”

“Mr. President.” Natasha sweeps into the Oval Office with an ease that Steve envies. Following her is a tall woman in a dress uniform—Navy, he thinks absently—with eyes that are sharp with intelligence.

“Natasha,” he greets.

“This is Commander Maria Hill. Barring any more unfortunate incidents, she should be serving as your National Security Adviser for the duration of your term.”

“Commander Hill,” Steve acknowledges, extending his hand to the woman in question.

“It’s an honor, sir. And just ‘Hill’ is fine,” she replies, taking his hand and shaking it once before letting hers fall back to her side.

“Hill, then. Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

(And that’s how it all begins)

 

 

April 2013

Steve is fairly certain Maria Hill doesn’t like him and it bothers him far more than he might like. Granted, he doesn’t have any actual proof for that assertion, but he can’t help but wonder about it. She’s the epitome of professionalism, which normally would be something he would admire, except he can’t shake the feeling that her cool demeanor in their briefings has something to do with him.

It bothers him enough that he finally asks Natasha.

“Does Hill have a problem with me?” It’s the end of a long day (and a long meeting about a new appropriations bill) and Natasha just stares at him when the question slips out. He’s about to take it back when she responds.

"No,” she replies. “Although, I think she could very well ask the same question about you, sir."

And that makes him blink in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"If Maria's impersonal and detached in her briefings it's because she thinks that's what you're looking for,” Natasha says with a small shrug. “She’s just taking her cues from you. To be completely honest, I can see how she might have gotten that impression."

And that’s…food for thought to be sure, even though he’s also not sure how to fix the situation. National security briefings make him tense, he doesn’t like them, but he hadn’t realized that might have come across as—

“Steve.” When he looks back at Natasha, there’s a small smile playing around the edges of her mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Relax. Take a breath,” she replies. “This is a non-issue, okay? Maria’s a professional and she understands that this is not an easy job. I’m sure she doesn’t take it personally. But…if you want, I could talk to her—”

“No.” The last thing he wants is for this to become a bigger deal than it is. Natasha’s right—it should be a non-issue. “No, that’s—no, it’s fine.”

“If you’re sure, sir.”

And that’s the last time they speak about it.

It still bothers him, and more than once he almost brings it up with Hill herself, but he always stops himself at the last minute because at the end of the day, she _is_ a professional and there’s no reason for him to ask that isn’t personal. Still, he tries to be more engaged in their briefings—tries being the operative word. Sometimes it works—on a few occasions he even gets a smile or two from her—but usually, it’s easier for him to act the same way he always has. National security is not an area in which he gets to be anything other than _President_ Rogers after all.

(When he looks back months later, it’s almost hilarious that he ever thought that viewpoint would be sustainable, for him or anyone, but as with many things, it takes a push to get him to realize it)

 

June 2013

Five DEA agents get taken hostage by a guerilla group in Columbia and Steve sends in special forces to bring them back. Calling it a disaster would be using polite terms. A fuck-up of epic proportions is how he would frame it, and he puts most of the blame for it on himself. Earlier, when he’d been in the Situation Room, he had wondered if everything seemed a little too perfect to be anything less than a set-up, but he had made the call anyway. And now he’s in his office, Hill standing at the side of the desk while he paces in front of it, trying to figure out how he let things get this bad.

“They walked straight into a trap. Nine men…they’re all dead?”

“Yes, sir. We’re collecting the bodies now.”

His head spins. His world tilts on its axis. His stomach roils. He’s a mess of grief and guilt and anger, so much anger at the injustice of it all, and he tries to keep a lid on it, tries not to react because he’s not a person he’s the president, but he’s fraying at the seams, cracking under the weight of these decisions, this job and he can’t—

 _“Goddammit!”_ The word bursts out of him before he can stop it and in the same breath he throws the glass in his hand as hard as he can at the fireplace. Watching it shatter isn’t nearly as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be.

Behind him, Hill inhales sharply, but he barely hears it. His throat is tight and his eyes burn and he stalks over to the couch (not his desk, not right now, he can’t sit in that chair right now) and collapses onto it, head in his hands as he wills himself to keep it together, to hold back the tidal wave of emotion that’s crushing him, at least for now, at least as long as he’s in the Oval Office.

He’s so focused on holding back that he doesn’t notice that Hill has moved until she places a hand on his shoulder and he _shudders_. He tries to speak but all that comes out is a broken sob and after that he can’t hold back anymore. His tears are silent after that, but they are there and he’s surprised to find he doesn’t feel the shame he was expecting to from breaking down so thoroughly in front of someone else. Gradually, the tension drains out of him until he has nothing left, until he’s exhausted emotionally as well as physically, and his shoulders slump forward as his focus narrows to the single point of contact that is Hill’s hand.

The room is dead quiet until he clears his throat and raises his head. Hill’s face is indecipherable but he doesn’t see any judgement in her eyes; rather, there’s a softness there that he’s not sure he’s seen before.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Her eyes spark with surprise.

“For that? You don’t ever have to apologize to me for that,” she says. “It’s been a difficult night for all of us. It’s a terrible situation. And you—you’re allowed to feel that. You’re allowed to feel…sir.”

“Steve.”

“Excuse me?”

“I feel like after that, you should really call me Steve. At least when it seems appropriate.”

“Alright,” she agrees. “Steve. In that case, I think you should probably call me Maria.”

That night sparks the beginning of a tentative friendship, and their official meetings slowly get later and later in the day, oftentimes turning into chess games or just discussions about anything that isn’t national security. It’s very easy to talk to Maria, Steve finds. She’s incredibly smart (although he knew that already) and has a dry wit that catches him by surprise once she becomes comfortable enough with him to return his snarky comments with ones of her own.

He very much enjoys being friends with her.

(Of course, the point at which he admits that to himself is the point at which May remarks that it’s nice to see him so happy and that his mother would have liked Maria and it hits him. _Oh. Oh dear. That’s incredibly inconvenient_ )


	2. The War At Home

January 2014

“Why did you quit being an artist?” Steve pauses in the middle of moving his bishop. It’s late and for once they’re in the residence instead of the Oval because the day had been a long one and he needed the freedom of his living space. Still, it’s odd to have Maria there, odd mostly because it’s far more comfortable than he might have expected and that…well, he tries not to think too hard about that.

“What?”

“During the campaign you said you joined the military because of your mom. But you never said why you didn’t go back to what you were doing before when you got out.” Maria gives him a long look before adding, “If it’s too personal, or if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I just…I wondered, so I thought I’d ask.”

Steve wets his lips and looks down at the chess board rather than at her as he considers. He hadn’t gotten that question very much throughout the campaign or even before, often because most people don’t have a very high opinion of artists and assume that going to law school was his way of “growing up” or something. He’s been glad to not get it because yes, the honest answer is personal, but…

He could just not answer. She’s already given him an out there. Or, he could give her part of the truth but not everything. But he thinks about the sketchbook on his bedside table, about the truly embarrassing number of pages filled with her, and he realizes that he wants to tell her the truth. Because this is Maria and he wants her to know him, despite the fact that he knows that path is a slippery slope.

“I stopped being an artist because I stopped being able to make art. At least, the kind of art I wanted to make,” he finally admits as he looks back up at her. She doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything else, just meets his gaze and after a moment he continues. “In Iraq, in Somalia, I saw things. Did things. I spent three months thinking that my best friend was dead and that it was my fault and even when I got him back it took me a long time to let go of that. And then my ma died and I just—I came home and I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t focus. I was so angry at everything, I hated everything. And when I tried to make art—in any medium, it really didn’t matter—that carried over. And I started to hate that too. So I stopped.”

“Do you ever regret it?” The question is quiet, curious, and there’s no trace of judgment in her eyes.

“No.” The answer comes automatically. “No. Because stepping back, not trying to make that my career, especially then, gave me the chance to get to a place where I could love it again. And I would rather love it as a hobby than hate it as a career.”

He doesn’t mention that he misses being a public defender, that the jury is still out on whether or not he hates _politics_ as a career. But then, she didn’t ask that question.

Maria hums thoughtfully, finally looking away from him and back to the chess board so she can make her move. “When I was a girl, I wanted to be an architect,” she shares. “My father was in the military. My brothers…I spent a long time thinking that was the last place I wanted to be.”

“What changed?”

She shrugs. “I realized I suck at drawing, but I’m really good at telling people what to do. It hasn’t turned out so bad.”

Her lips quirk up as she moves her rook and her eyes come back to his. “Checkmate, sir.”

Steve looks down at the board and laughs. “I must be off my game tonight.”

“No more than usual,” she teases as she gets up from the couch.

“You’re leaving?” (He could kick himself for the way his voice sounds)

“I have an early meeting at the Pentagon, but I look forward to kicking your ass again tomorrow. Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, Maria.”

She gets as far as the door before she pauses and looks back at him over her shoulder. “Steve? Thank you for telling me.”

The lights are dimmed in the entryway and the play of shadows on her face makes his fingers itch for a pencil.

 _You are so fucked, Rogers_. The voice in his head sounds like Bucky.

“Goodnight,” he repeats quietly. When the door shuts behind her, he looks up at the ceiling with a sigh.

_What the hell am I doing?_

 

 

May 2014

Steve comes out to the world on a Tuesday.

It’s an accident (mostly). Normally, he wouldn’t have gone that far, but Senator Stane has been stirring up controversy about “gays” in the military for weeks and when he got a question about it at a press conference after signing a new anti-hate crime bill, well…he may have snapped.

He’s pretty sure there were better ways that could have gone.

"Ms. Lewis, critics are calling for a public apology and accusing the president of pushing a "radical gay agenda." How would you respond to that?"

"Well, I would say that his "agenda" is no different now than it was on the campaign trail and no one was calling it that then,” Darcy responds. “As for an apology, really? The man is bisexual, he's not dying. He's also not in a relationship which is why it never came up. He didn't lie. He has nothing to apologize for. End of story."

“She’s good.”

Steve jumps, his head snapping towards the door. When Maria calmly raises an eyebrow at his response, he mutes the television and slumps into the couch. “I lost my temper,” he sighs.

“I challenge Senator Stane to take a look at my service record and then say LGBT individuals aren’t fit to serve in the military,” she recites. “Yes, I would say that you did.”

Steve winces. “How are the joint chiefs?”

Maria shrugs and steps further into the room until she’s leaning against the couch across from the one he’s currently occupying. “You could ask them yourself.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Steve.” It’s the first time she’s ever used his name in the Oval outside of their late night chess games and it makes his chest ache. He doesn’t look up until the cushions next to him depress from her weight and she puts a hand on his shoulder.

“They don’t care,” she finally replies. When his eyes widen in surprise, she clicks her tongue in censure. “They don’t. You’re the Commander in Chief, you were speaking to your own experience, and honestly, if you hadn’t said something one of them would have taken Stane down a peg or twelve by the end of the week. He’s a bully and a bigot, Steve. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I made a pretty big mess for my staff,” he acknowledges.

“They’re fine. They’re handling it. Like I said—” Maria tilts her chin towards the screen where Darcy’s just finished her briefing. “They’re good at their jobs.”

Steve looks at the screen and nods. After a moment, he adds, “If you’re wondering why I didn’t tell you—”

“I’m not,” she interrupts.

“It would be okay if you were. We’re friends, it’s a valid question.”

“You’re not obligated to tell anyone about your sexuality, Steve, friends or not,” she replies. “I never asked, you never felt the need to share. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

When he catches her eyes, he can tell she means it, and he’s not entirely sure what to say in response to that so he doesn’t say anything at all. After a moment, Maria smiles.

“Do you have a thousand and one meetings to get to, or do we have time for chess first? I know my day will certainly be improved by wiping the floor with you.”

“Okay, see, you keep making comments like that, but I have actually won before,” Steve laughs.

“If it’s been over a month, it doesn’t count.”

“We’ll see about that.”

 

 

October 2014

Shots ring out when Steve reaches the rope line in Rosslyn and it’s not until he’s in the car and halfway back to the White House that he realizes he’s been hit. It’s not serious—his shoulder hurts like hell, but the doctors tell him there shouldn’t be any lasting damage—but even so, he signs over his presidential powers to Sam for the duration of his care. If he does it in part so he can stay longer in the hospital without worry (close to his staff, closer to updates on Matt who wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for him), well, no one calls him on it.

Maria shows up at his hospital room in the early hours of the morning, a little while after he watches Darcy announce the arrest of the gunmen’s accomplice on the room’s TV screen.

“Shouldn’t you be with Sam?” he asks quietly.

“Acting President Wilson is fine without me for now,” she replies. “The guy they caught admitted to being the only accomplice so the airports, etcetera should be reopening soon. Nothing much for me to do until something else comes up.”

“I’m fine,” Steve says. She looks pointedly at the bandages and sling on his arm and he sighs.

“Press is reporting he was a member of a white supremacist, anti-LGBT, hate group,” he remarks.

“It isn’t your fault,” Maria replies immediately.

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Steve.” Her voice is sharp, commanding in a way he’s never heard from her but makes it impossible to question how she reached the position she’s in. “Look at me.”

He does.

“Three guys got together and decided that they wanted to kill the President. That’s on them,” she says fiercely. “That’s. On. Them. So, as far as blame is concerned, it doesn’t matter if they shot at you because you’re bi or because you have a black Vice President or because they just don’t like your policies. Those things might be important later in deciding how to frame the narrative and whether or not you want to call it a hate crime, but they have nothing to do with whose fault last night was. We know whose fault it was. The guys with the guns.”

She reaches out and takes his hand and Steve lets his head fall back against the pillows.

“This world, Maria. My God, it’s such a fucking mess.”

“Yeah.”

“Matt’s in surgery with a hole in his chest, I’m about five minutes from going back to the White House and ordering Darcy out of the press room myself, not because she can’t do her job but because—”

_Because the man she loves might die and she shouldn’t have to be working if that happens._

God, he’s exhausted. His shoulder hurts and he’s exhausted and everything is just…he never wanted any of this to happen.

“He’s in love with her, you know,” Steve says, unconsciously lacing his fingers through hers.

“Matt?”

“Yeah.” Steve laughs, but there’s nothing humorous in it. “They’ve been friends for nearly twenty years and he’s never told her. Not once. When we were on the campaign I asked him one night what he was waiting for and he smiled this funny little smile and said, “What I’ve always been waiting for. Her.” And I just—they could have had everything if he’d just said…”

“Maybe not,” Maria cuts in. “Maybe she would have pushed him away, not wanting to risk what they have right now. Maybe she didn’t know exactly how she felt until tonight. Maybe they would have tried but it would have been terrible because they needed the extra years. There are a lot of variables. And they…they’ll have time. To get it right. He’s not going to die.”

“Even if he doesn’t there’s still so much bullshit to work through. Their jobs, the press—”

She catches his gaze and holds it for a long moment, and just like that he knows they aren’t talking about Matt and Darcy any longer, if they ever really were.

“I think they’ll manage,” she replies. “After all, the press probably cares less about the Communications Director and the Press Secretary than the President.”

Steve opens his mouth to say something, but just then her phone rings. Her hand slips out of his as she listens to whoever is on the other side of the call and he feels the loss intensely.

“I have to go,” Maria informs him as soon as the call ends. And just like that, it’s like a wall has gone up between them. “I’ll be in your office tomorrow to brief you on the specifics of everything that’s happened if you’re up to it. If not, we’ll find a time.”

"Maria—" She looks up and her eyes spark with something he can't identify, but it makes his mouth go dry.

"Yes, Mr. President?"

_Not the President. Not right now. Not for another few hours._

_You have no idea how badly I want to be a normal person for you_ , he thinks.

Steve clears his throat and shakes his head.

"Nothing. Never mind.”


	3. The Fall's Gonna Kill You

February 2015

Even though it’s something that has been in the back of his mind since he took office, re-election talk still comes sooner than Steve expects. It shouldn’t be a surprise when Natasha brings it up one night—he isn’t oblivious enough not to have been aware of extra polls being put out—but it still is. Her eyes are sharp and far too observant when he uncharacteristically trips over his words (“I hadn’t really—of course I—well, there are a lot of—”) and when she leaves his office that night, all he can do is rake a hand through his hair and sigh.

It should be a no-brainer. People expect him to run again. Without an extremely good reason, eight years is supposed to be the goal—Steve knows that. He’s just…not entirely sure it’s what he wants.

In the end, his decision comes down to a conversation with Sam.

_“Do you think I should?”_

_“I think it’s up to you, Rogers. I can say I wouldn’t mind another four years of practice as VP before throwing my hat into the ring for the real thing, but if it isn’t what you want, I can step up. Like I said. It’s your call.”_

_“There are people who are counting on me to run again.”_

_“Well, sure. But they’re not the ones who have to do the job.”_

Steve thinks about it for another few days after that, but in the end he decides that he has to run again. If this is the last job he’ll ever really be able to have, he should at least do it justice.

(Natasha doesn’t look surprised when he tells her his decision. Darcy announces it in her briefing the next day)

He tries not to think about Maria. It doesn’t work.

 

March 2015

There's something different about Maria. It's not _bad_ per se, just...different. They still meet when they can, talk, play chess, as if nothing's changed, but she's almost always a little more guarded during those stolen moments than before and when she meets with him in any official capacity, there's an added layer of formality that he'd thought had been softening the more comfortable they'd gotten with one another.

At first he thinks it has something to do with the shooting, but no, that was months ago and even if she’d withdrawn a little in the immediate aftermath they’d returned to normal fairly soon after. The re-election announcement crosses his mind as well, but he struggles to find a way to ask her about it without asking outright how she feels and that’s…not something he’s prepared to do.

(As it turns out, he doesn’t end up having to)

A submarine goes missing off the coast of North Korea and that’s the figurative straw that breaks the camel’s back for both of them.

“They’ve gone quiet, Mr. President. That’s all,” Maria says firmly.

She’s standing at attention in front of his desk and her stiffness pricks at him almost as much as the situation itself because they’re not ten feet from the couch where she’d laughed with him the night before, jacket unbuttoned and heels kicked off, and he hates the distance the light of day brings with it, hates the return to “Mr. President” and “Sir” and the cold mask of neutrality she puts on with it. He hates it.

“You said not five minutes ago that they could be damaged and running out of air or sighted or some combination of the two,” Steve replies.

A flicker of irritation crosses her face, so fast he barely catches it, but he does and for some reason it feels like a victory. A petty one, maybe. But a victory nonetheless.

“I said that was a highly unlikely worst case scenario and then I reiterated that more likely than not we don’t have a signal because they’ve _gone quiet_.”

Steve pushes his chair back from the desk and stands, crossing his arms over his chest as he turns towards the shaded windows. “I still think we should send in a recovery team.”

“Mr. President, if you do that you will be causing an unnecessary international incident between us and North Korea, not to mention actively putting those men’s lives at risk. I’m telling you to wait.”

Her tone gets sharper with each word and he honestly can’t tell if she’s actually raised her voice or if it just seems that way. Either way, his raises in response.

(Deep down, not even that deep if he’s honest with himself, he knows she’s right, knows he’s angry for reasons that have nothing to do with a missing submarine and everything to do with this godforsaken job, knows he shouldn’t be picking a fight with her when none of it is her fault either, but he’s not allowed to tell her he’s completely in love with her and he is allowed to argue, so fighting it is)

“You don’t _tell_ me to do anything, Commander Hill,” he snaps. “That’s not your job.”

Her eyes flash and her jaw ticks and he steps closer because he can’t help himself, he’s not angry with _her_ after all.

“I’m extremely well aware what my job is, _sir_ ,” Maria shoots back. “Until such time as you request my resignation, my _job_ is to advise you on matters of national security. Right now, this is a matter of national security and I am advising you to wait a few hours and let the crew of the Portland handle this themselves instead of riding in guns blazing—”

“And if there is a malfunction and the crew dies?”

“They’re not going to die! They’ve gone quiet!”

Both of them are shouting now, only inches between them—he doesn’t remember her being so close, when did she get so close?—and he almost wishes he could dial it back, but he doesn’t.

“You don’t know that!”

“God _dammit_ , Steve, would you just—”

Whatever the rest of that sentence was meant to be, he doesn’t find out because Maria grabs hold of his lapels and _yanks_ and then her lips are on his and yeah, okay, they really weren’t fighting about the damn sub anyway. There’s nothing gentle about the kiss. She bites his lip hard enough that Steve’s surprised it doesn’t draw blood, but then her tongue is in his mouth and he lets his hands fall to her hips as he presses her against the edge of his desk and it’s everything, everything—

(He’s wanted to touch her for ages but never allowed himself to do so, even when it seemed like she wanted him to. There have been nights since the shooting, since the hospital, when she's looked at him in a certain way or said something that made him wonder—but no. It seemed too much like an abuse of power, like coercion, but she kissed him. _She_ kissed _him_ and he honestly doesn’t think he can come back from this, not when he knows exactly how she tastes, how she feels under his hands, the sound she makes when his thumbs press hard into the hollows of her hips—)

Her nails bite into the back of his neck and he shudders and breaks the kiss with a gasp. For a moment neither of them move, and then Steve rests his forehead against hers and relaxes his hands.

“Maria…” He barely breathes her name, but it’s enough to break the stillness between them. Maria freezes and pushes him back enough that she can move past him.

“You really should wait. To order a retrieval,” she says. If he didn’t know her so well he might not have noticed the slight waver in her voice. Her words though…the shift back to business is jarring and it takes him a moment to readjust.

“Yeah. Yeah, I—we’ll give them some time. Check in…maybe in another four hours?”

She nods sharply, her mask firmly back up.

“Will that be all, sir? I have a meeting with the joint chiefs.”

He wants to say no. He wants to talk, wants her to explain what that was, what it means that she just kissed him in the Oval Office of all places. But he doesn’t.

“That’ll be all.”

 

Two days later, Darcy shows up at his door with a look on her face that says he’s about to get metaphorically smacked and before she even says a word he just _knows_ it’s going to be about Maria.

“Mr. President? I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to answer it honestly,” she says as soon as the door shuts behind her.

“Okay.”

“Did you and Maria Hill have a shouting match in here the other day that resulted in her yelling, and I believe I’m quoting here, “Goddammit, Steve, would you just…?” I won’t ask what happened between that and when she left the room because honestly, I really don’t want to know, but I need confirmation on the first part.”

Steve considers being prickly or affronted or shifty, but honestly he’s just tired. He’s tired of this job, tired of the fact that it keeps him from being as open with Maria as he might want to be, tired of the fact that she uses it as an excuse to keep herself at arm’s length. He’s only seen her once since the kiss and that was in the Situation Room with half a dozen other people and she avoided his gaze the entire time. He wants to see her, wants to talk, wants her to tell him what the hell that meant, but she’s avoiding him and he understands why. He’s just…he’s tired.

“Yes, it’s true,” he sighs.

Darcy closes her eyes and presses her lips together—he’s pretty sure she’s trying to keep herself from shouting at him now—and when she speaks again, her voice is quiet but forceful.

“Natasha wasn’t in her office at the time so she’s only heard about this second-hand, but at least two staffers were close enough to hear. Now, they’re not talking because they have good heads on their shoulders but sir, you know as well as I do how rumors travel around here, especially when they’re true.”

“I do.”

Darcy opens her mouth, closes it, and gives him a calculating look. He tries not to show that her scrutiny is more than a little uncomfortable.

(It’s uncomfortable because when she looks at him like that it feels like she can see right through him, right to the heart of everything he isn’t saying and everything he wants to be, and when he still isn’t comfortable admitting certain things to himself, he would rather his Press Secretary not know them)

“I’m doing my best to make sure this doesn’t end up in the hands of the press,” she says finally. “But, a word of advice, Mr. President? Whatever is going on between you and Maria? Try to keep it out of the Oval Office, at least when it’s the middle of the day.”

Steve nods—his stomach twists from the dressing down, which, considering she didn’t actually say that much is impressive—and she takes that as her cue to go. When she reaches the door, however, he finds himself calling her back.

"How would it work? If—if there was something going on. Just...walk me through it."

(It's a dangerous question. He shouldn't be thinking about it at all really, but he just...)

Darcy sighs and when she looks back at him there isn’t anger or frustration in her eyes anymore, just compassion. "They would be happy for you at first. There would be interviews and articles about how wonderful it is that you've found true love...for a week, or a month, or maybe even a few months, they would be happy for you."

"And then?"

"And then they would change their tune because happy doesn't stay sexy for very long," she replies. "They would go looking for drama and in doing so they would pull up every national security situation with a bad outcome throughout the course of your entire administration. And then they would start asking whether in each of those scenarios you were truly exercising your best judgment or if you followed the word of your National Security Adviser because you're in love with her. And that's the point where things would get very, very ugly for both of you. Mostly for her, but for both of you. Worst case scenario, if someone on the Hill was feeling particularly ambitious, there could be hearings. Even with the best case she would probably have to resign."

And that’s so much worse than he had considered, but it makes sense. It’s terrible and unfair and he hates it with everything in him, but it makes sense.

“Thank you, Darcy,” he replies.

“Of course, sir.”

The next morning, Steve sets off for a Trade Summit in China. As he reads through reports on Air Force One, he can’t help thinking it’s probably for the best that he’ll be gone for a few days.

(If it feels a little like running away, well, he can’t help that)


	4. Constituency of One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria Hill loves her job. She's responsible, pragmatic, calm under pressure—all things that make her well qualified to serve as National Security Adviser. What's more, she's worked hard to get where she is, and yet no matter how many times she’s proved herself throughout her life, there will always be someone waiting for her to slip up so they can talk about how unqualified she is. 
> 
> Which is why it’s extremely inconvenient that she’s at least halfway in love with her boss.

_May 2015_

Maria loves her job. She's responsible, pragmatic, calm under pressure—all things that make her well qualified to serve as National Security Adviser. What's more, she's worked hard to get where she is, and yet no matter how many times she’s proved herself throughout her life and her career, there always seems to be someone waiting for her to slip up so they can talk about how unqualified she is. 

Which is why it’s extremely inconvenient that she’s at least halfway in love with her boss. Which…might matter less if her boss weren’t the President of the United States, but since that fact doesn’t seem to be changing, she’s kind of stuck. 

(And oh, she is so angry about that—about the fact that Steve’s running for reelection—because how many times has he sat with her and talked about the heavy burdens of the presidency, about how if he could go back and change it he’s not sure he would have run in the first place because he hates politics even if he likes that he has opportunities to make a difference? How many times has he shattered under the weight of his godforsaken job only to have to put himself back together again? 

And after all of that—after everything he’s shared with her over the past two and a half years—he didn’t even have the decency to tell her that he was even considering running again, let alone that he'd officially made the decision, and she’s not angry so much as stung to her core)

So, yes, Maria loves her job…but right now, she really hates the parts of it that mean she needs to interact with the very person she’d like nothing more than to avoid until the end of time. Especially since she went and kissed him.

_Of all the goddamn fool decisions—_

By all rights, she should resign. Kissing the President in the Oval Office after shouting at him isn’t exactly the kind of impeccable judgment one would typically demand of a National Security Adviser. Except that a) she doesn’t want to because she really does love her job and b) she’s fairly sure Steve wouldn’t accept her resignation anyway.

(There’s also a third reason, which is that resigning would mean having to face him alone and in person, and since she’s managed to avoid that since her momentary loss of good sense six weeks ago, she’d really like to avoid that—but that’s neither here nor there)

 _Steve_ …Maria closes her eyes for a moment, fingers rubbing gentle circles at her temples. He knows she’s been avoiding him, although she hasn’t exactly been subtle about it so that’s not a surprise. What is a surprise is the bouquet of flowers on her desk. 

It’s the fourth bouquet in as many days, no cards with any of them, but they’ve all been delivered by West Wing staff, so either they’re from Steve or Foggy Nelson has finally given up on the blonde Republican in the Counsel’s Office. Every one of them has been beautiful, but they’re cluttering up her office and her staff has started to give her curious looks.

She should tell him to stop sending them. For one thing, she doesn’t even like flowers all that much. For another she doesn’t have a clue why he’s sending them at all (and he shouldn’t be sending her anything, but especially not if he isn’t at least going to explain himself). Except, telling him to stop or asking for an explanation would require talking to him about something personal and would likely also involve being alone with him because she’s not going to send the President an email asking why he’s sending her flowers. 

Still—Maria opens her eyes and glares at the bouquets stashed around her office—this is becoming a problem.

 _I am not a coward_ , she reminds herself. _I’m more than capable of having a damn conversation._

With a sigh, she hits the intercom button on her desk. “Sharon, could you get me May Parker please?”

“Of course, ma’am,” her assistant answers. “Should I ask her to put you through to the President?”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Maria assures. “May will be fine.”

While she waits for the call to go through, she can’t help glancing over at the muted television in the corner. For what seems like the tenth time so far this week, Darcy Lewis is fielding questions about Steve’s trip to Britain the week before. Specifically, she’s fielding questions about Steve’s relationship with one Margaret Carter.

Thankfully, the intercom buzzes again before Maria can get sucked into listening to whatever new variations on _Is the President sleeping with the head of MI-5_ the press has come up with today.

(He’s not. She knows that. Which is why the tightness in her chest whenever she sees one of these press conferences has nothing to do with jealousy. It does however, have everything to do with the sickening realization that it could just as easily be her name being tossed around in the press room, her personal life and history dragged out for all to read about)

“Ma’am? Line 1.”

“Thank you, Sharon.” Maria takes a steadying breath before she picks up the phone. 

“Hi, May.”

“How can I help you today, Maria?” The older woman answers.

“I was wondering—” Her gaze settles back on the nearest bouquet and her throat goes dry. What if he doesn’t want to see her? What if she’s wrong and the flowers aren’t from him after all? Or maybe they are, but they don’t mean anything. Hell, maybe they’re _Sorry I kissed you back, I’m actually not into you_ rejection flowers. 

_Would resigning really be the worst thing in the world?_

“Maria?”

Maria blinks and clears her throat. “Sorry, May. Got distracted by a report for a moment there. I was wondering if you could tell me when the President is expected to be back in the residence tonight.”

If May is surprised, she hides it well. Not even a beat passes before Maria can hear the click of a mouse on the other side of the line. “It looks like he should be finished for the day around 9, barring any emergencies. Did you want me to add you to the schedule?”

_And leave an official record of this conversation? Definitely not._

“It’s nothing urgent,” Maria replies. “I’ll just drop by on my way out. Thanks.”

“Of course, Maria. I’ll let him know you’ll be stopping in.”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask May not to, but surprising Steve just so she can have more of an upper hand seems somewhat immature. (And isn’t the point of this to stop hiding and be an adult?)

“Great. Thanks, May. I’ll call back if something comes up.”

Maria sits back heavily in her chair when she hangs up the phone. It’s only 3PM. 

Six more hours. Six hours in which she can hopefully figure out something to say that isn’t going to lead to another fight. 

_Goddammit, Steve, would you just—_

It had been better than a good kiss. His mouth, his hands—Christ, it had been electric. And all of this would be so much easier if she could stop thinking about it every time she closes her eyes. 

Because they can’t do it again. That much she knows all too well. 

_I love my job_ , Maria thinks as she turns her gaze away from the flowers and towards the pile of security briefings on her desk.

 

She ignores the thought that comes after it. _But is it enough?_


	5. No Exit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You made up your mind about this months ago_ , Maria reminds herself. _It’s the best thing for it. The only thing for it really._
> 
> Except, if that’s the case, why does dwelling on what she’s about to do make her feel so sick?
> 
> [In which hard conversations are had, confessions are made, and everything is finally laid out on the table]

Maria almost talks herself out of going at least three separate times. In the end, it’s the reminder that the longer she puts this off the worse it’ll be that turns her feet towards the residence after the clock hits 9:00. 

(She doesn’t think about how part of her _wants_ to go, that she misses Steve, misses _them_ more than anything. She doesn’t think about the fact that not speaking to him except when she absolutely needs to has been far more difficult than it’s been with anyone else she’s tried to distance herself from. She doesn’t think about how it feels like there’s something missing—an empty, carved-out hollow in her chest, in her life. She doesn’t think about anything except what she knows she has to say because any other train of thought is like a flashing sign reading _Danger, Will Robinson_ )

 _You made up your mind about this months ago_ , she reminds herself. _It’s the best thing for it. The only thing for it really._

Except, if that’s the case, why does dwelling on what she’s about to do make her feel so sick?

The Secret Service Agent at the door doesn’t even blink when Maria turns up and knocks on the Residence door. She’s not sure what to think about that.

She fidgets with her hands while she waits, pushing past the sick feeling in her stomach when the door finally swings open and Steve appears, his face lighting up when his eyes land on her.

“Maria.” He breathes her name like it’s a prayer and she closes her eyes to steel herself.

“Can I come in?” She asks.

“Of course,” he agrees, stepping to the side.

Maria waits until she’s inside, until the door is shut once more but she’s still far enough away from him that she won’t be tempted to do something stupid like kiss him again.

“I’m glad you’re—”

“You have to stop sending me flowers.”

Steve’s mouth snaps shut, confusion passing over his face. “I—what?”

“You have to stop sending me flowers,” she repeats. “I don’t know what compelled you to start in the first place, but—”

“Maria—”

“You have to _stop_ , Steve,” she cuts him off. “We can’t—I can’t do this. So, please don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

Steve’s jaw ticks as he looks away from her and then back. “Is this about Peggy? Because nothing happened on that trip, I swear—” Maria almost laughs.

“This is about the fact that you’re the President of the United States, Steve,” she replies. “This is about the fact that I _work_ for you and it’s—come on, you can’t say you don’t know how this looks, what the press would say if they knew that you—that I—”

“I don’t care how it looks,” Steve says. “I thought—look, I’m sorry I ran away after we kissed. I shouldn’t have done that, it was—well, I just shouldn’t have. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot and Maria, I don’t care anymore. Fuck what they would say. Let them crucify me in the press. I just…”

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Why shouldn’t we get to be happy?”

There’s something bubbling up inside her, a pocket of wild and hysterical laughter, because he’s just tilted her world on its axis and not in a good way. Everything is hazy and a little bit sick and her feet itch to turn and run out the door so she doesn’t have to deal with any of this.

“Why?” Maria does laugh then, unable to hold all of it back. “Because we’re not living in a fantasy land, Steve. This isn’t some romantic comedy where nothing else matters because we love each other. You don’t care about the press, the consequences? Well, guess what? I do.”

“Maria—”

“You have no idea what it’s taken me to get here,” she says, holding up a hand so he won’t try and cut her off. “You have no idea what it means to be a woman in this position or in any position related to Defense. Do you know what the actual consequences would be for me if this got out?”

Steve has the decency to at least look somewhat chastened. “You could lose your job,” he acknowledges.

Maria shakes her head. “I wouldn’t only lose this job,” she replies. “I would lose any chance of being respected in my field ever again. I would be a laughingstock—an example of why women shouldn’t be allowed in these positions. Everything I’ve worked so hard to build for myself would be gone in an instant. And I’m not—”

She closes her eyes and swallows hard against the lump that rises in her throat. “I’m not willing to give that up,” she finishes. “Not even for you. And if you really care about me, you won’t ask me to.”

Steve’s gone ashen when she opens her eyes once more. It’s clear that he hadn’t thought about it in those terms, even if at one point he’d considered what he assumed the consequences would be. 

“I—Maria—”

The room is stifling, the walls closing in, and Maria can’t stand it any longer. She’d said what she needed to say.

“I have to go,” she says, crossing swiftly to the door. Steve reaches out and stops her with a touch to her arm and both of them freeze for a moment before he withdraws his hand.

“Goodnight, Mr. President.”

She doesn’t look back.

When Maria steps back into the hall, she wanders for several minutes, not wanting to go back to her own office but too wound up to go home either. It’s on her second or third pass down the hall when Natasha’s door opens.

“Maria,” the Chief of Staff calls. “I think we should talk.”

* * *

_June 2015_

To say that Steve is in a funk would be an understatement. He’d well and truly miscalculated with Maria—although he understands now, the whole situation still stings when he thinks about it. And he thinks about it far more than he should, arguably to the point of distraction. Which is why it’s somewhat surprising that Natasha doesn’t actually say anything to him about Maria for almost a month after it happens.

When she does though...well, she doesn’t mince her words.

“Natasha, what’s going on with the Greek ambassador?” Steve asks, not glancing up from the budget report he has open on his desk.

“James is meeting with her tomorrow.”

“I thought someone was meeting with her today.”

“Yes, that was the plan. Except that when I handed out assignments, our dear Matthew failed to mention the fact that she’s his ex-girlfriend.”

That brings Steve up short. He lifts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? And the press—”

“Was concerned that he might hand over a few billion extra dollars in aid relief because they’ve had sex, yeah,” Natasha finishes. “Like I said, James is meeting with her tomorrow.” 

“I suppose I should be glad they’ve stopped talking about my love life,” he says.

“If they have it’s only because Darcy is extremely good at her job and not because you’ve stopped giving them opportunities.”

“For the last time, those pictures of Peggy and I were completely out of context. We’re friends, she just got engaged, I was congratulating her—” 

He really should have known better than to walk into such an obvious trap. 

“I wasn’t talking about Director Carter,” Natasha says firmly.

“Then…”

“The UN Ambassador is resigning at the end of this year. You should appoint Maria to the post.”

His stomach drops out from under him. _What?_

“I—”

Natasha sighs. “Steve. I’m happy for you. I am. Or I would be if the two of you could actually do anything about those feelings of yours until you’re out of office. But as it is, both of you are miserable and your feelings are obvious enough that sooner or later some random press aide is going to notice.”

“I’m not going to send her to Geneva until after the reelection, that’s ridiculous,” Steve argues.

“Not only that,” Natasha corrects. “If you’re re-elected, she’ll keep the post. So, 5 years essentially. But if you don’t send her, I guarantee you, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even a year from now, but at some point over the next term, someone will find out. And when that happens, you will have ruined her career. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not, but I can’t just—”

“I’ve already spoken to her about it. She wants the job.” 

Of course. Of course Natasha’s already spoken to her. Of course neither of them had even thought to mention it to him until it was already decided. 

“She does.”

“There’s no reason why she wouldn’t. She’s prepared to start in January. Melinda May will be her replacement.” 

“Well, it sounds like you already have all of that sorted then. I suppose I have no say in this?”

“Of course you have a say, and if you would like I can come up with a list of candidates. But Maria is incredibly qualified. She’s the best fit and she wants to go and sir? If you keep her here because of your feelings, that will be every abuse of power you’ve tried to avoid so far all wrapped into one, and she will not thank you for it.” 

He hates that everything she’s saying makes sense. He hates that things have come to this. And more than anything, in the moment, he hates that he ever agreed to run for President at all.


	6. The Long Goodbye

It wouldn’t be accurate to say things go back to normal—normal has been forever colored by their kiss, their conversation afterwards, the acknowledgment that this thing between them is real and reciprocated but cannot be, at least not anytime soon. There are some things though that at least strike a semblance of normality. They resume their chess games, share a drink in the silence of the Oval after particularly bad days, and their working relationship is as strong as ever.

But there are differences too. Steve doesn’t sit as close and Maria’s stopped herself from touching him more than once, both of them hyper-aware of even casual contact. Their banter, usually so easy, feels stilted more often than not, words catching in throats when they drift too close to things they shouldn’t say. 

They don’t talk about her leaving. It hangs in the air between them constantly, the unaddressed elephant in the room, but Steve is tired. He misses Maria already, even if January is still months away, and the last thing he wants is to misstep and risk pushing her away for the rest of that time. 

(Some people might call it cowardice, but seeing as Maria’s made it perfectly clear where _she_ stands, he prefers to think of it as respecting her decision)

But of course, the universe clearly has too much fun laughing at him to let him leave it for long.

* * *

_November, 2015_

“Where’s Maria?” Steve asks, walking into the Situation Room after being called away from a meeting only to notice an important absence.

“She’s taking a few personal days,” one of the joint chiefs—Coulson, Steve thinks his name is—replies.

It’s an answer, but not one that makes any sense given what he knows of Maria.

“Maria doesn’t take personal days. Is she sick?”

“Her father died,” Natasha says, stepping into the room behind him. “This wasn’t important enough to call her back for. Now, if we can begin?”

Steve closes his mouth and takes his seat, somehow managing to mostly pay attention to the briefing despite the fact that his mind is swirling.

_Her father died._

He should call her. Ask if she’s okay, if she needs anything, if he can—

“Mr. President?”

Steve clears his throat and brings his focus back to the other people in the room. _What was the question? Oh, right—_

“The last thing we want is to risk alienating our allies before we have anything concrete,” he says. “Keep an eye on the situation and let me know if anything changes. In the meantime, I want the Israeli ambassador in my office within the hour. We’ll go from there.”

It turns out to be a hell of a day, even if Natasha’s assessment was correct and they didn’t need Maria. And yet, between meeting after meeting and all manner of putting out metaphorical fires, Steve’s thoughts nonetheless keep drifting back to her.

She’s rarely spoken to him about her father. When she has, Steve’s gotten the impression that their relationship was strained at best, but nonetheless, he’s all too aware of the toll the loss of a parent can take. He should call her. He wants to call.

He doesn’t.

But, as it turns out, he doesn’t have to.

It’s after 10PM by the time Steve finally leaves the Oval, but after sitting for so much of the day, he doesn’t want to go back to the residence immediately. It’s pure happenstance that the path he takes to stretch his legs leads him past Maria’s office. 

The light is on. 

Steve considers continuing on, tells himself it’s probably just Sharon leaving something for when Maria comes back, but...it’s late. Later than most people would still be there. So he can’t help himself.

It’s not Sharon. But it also isn’t Maria, at least not any version of her he’s seen before. In the dim light of her desk lamp Steve can just make out the redness of her eyes and the dark circles beneath them. Her nails have been cut down, the skin around her thumbs raw and torn where he can see them barely peeking out from the threadbare sleeves of an oversized sweatshirt. 

He should go. Should leave her to her grief and reports and go to bed at once. Except, the moment he resolves to do just that, Maria looks up and spots him hovering outside the door.

“Steve?”

“They—uh—said you were out today,” he says, unable to think of anything but the obvious.

“I came back early,” Maria replies, the invisible weight on her shoulders seeming to grow heavier as he watches. “But then when I got in I didn’t want to go home, so...here I am. Which is...ironic.”

Her mouth twists into something too bitter to be a smile and Steve’s hands itch to touch her, to take that expression away. He doesn’t.

“Do you want me to go?” He asks instead, not wanting to intrude when she’s vulnerable.

“I—” Maria blows out a breath and runs her hands through her already messy hair. “—yes. But also no.”

“Okay.” He waits. 

“Can we go somewhere else?” She asks.

“Sure.”

They’re limited in options given the hour and who they are—well, who he is at any rate—but since Maria hasn’t told him to leave her alone and doesn’t object when their path turns toward the residence, he breathes a little easier. They don’t talk on the way there, Steve not wanting to push and Maria not offering anything else, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable.

The secret service agent at the door greets them with a nod, a flicker of concern in his eyes when he looks at Maria. For her part, Maria walks past him without a second glance.

“Is she all right, sir?”

“I don’t know, Bobby,” Steve sighs. “I don’t know.”

When he steps through the door after her, Maria’s already kicked off her shoes and is curled into the corner of the couch, her hands wrapped tightly around a glass half-full of amber liquid. 

Steve settles next to her, although he leaves enough space for her to stretch out should she want to, and finally asks, “Why is it ironic?”

“What?”

“In your office you said it was ironic that you came here. Why?”

Maria knocks back the rest of her drink without looking at him. 

“Maria?” Steve prompts gently.

“You know, I knew he was sick,” she says instead of answering the question. “I’d known for awhile, but he said it wasn’t serious and we didn’t talk much anyway so I didn’t feel like I had to go see him. Thinking about it, even if I’d known how bad it was, I still might not have visited. That was just how we were. And besides, I was busy.”

Steve doesn’t interrupt when she goes quiet and reaches for the decanter on the side table to refill her glass. 

“I hadn’t seen him in five years,” she admits before taking a sip. “And now he’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” she replies. “He was a bastard. A great soldier, but a fucking terrible father, and I—you know, sometimes I think I hated him way more than I ever loved him because he just made it so goddamn difficult.”

Maria runs her fingers through her hair again and swallows hard before she looks back to him. 

“Does that make me terrible?”

Steve catches her dark eyes over the rim of the glass that she’s holding like a shield and slowly shakes his head. 

“I think it makes you human,” he replies.

Maria toasts him with the glass and knocks it back, making a face at the burn of the alcohol.

“My brothers think it makes me terrible,” she says in a voice so light she could be talking about the weather. “My youngest brother, Jeremy, he said I was—what was it?—oh, right. Selfish. A selfish bitch of a workaholic who has never cared about anything but her career and probably never will. And after leaving following that delightful conversation, I came here. To work. That’s why it’s ironic.”

“He shouldn’t have said that,” Steve replies, righteous anger filling him on her behalf.

“No?”

“No,” he says firmly, reaching out to take her hand before she can refill her glass again.

(Not that he minds if she wants to get blindingly drunk off of his very expensive scotch, but he does feel like he should at least say something first)

“Maria...you’re not obligated to have a relationship with your family or anyone else. You don’t have to love them just because they’re family, that’s not how that works. Besides which, your job is—well, it’s important. You’re responsible for people’s safety. Their lives. Willingly taking on that kind of responsibility and the workload that comes with it...I wouldn’t call that selfish. I’d call it brave.”

Maria stares at him for a long moment. “You really mean that.”

If isn’t a question, but he replies like it is. “Of course I do,” he says. “Anyone who knows you can tell you haven’t done what you have to get medals or titles or promotions. You care about people. You care about this work, about this country, about this world. And if there are sacrifices, if you sometimes have to give things up, that’s...well, that’s reality.”

He’s embarrassed in the silence that falls after that. It was too much. Too open. Too honest. Too sincere. And he meant every word, of course he did, but he’s been trying to be...less. To say less. To feel less. But that’s just about impossible. 

“I gave you up for my career,” Maria says quietly, no longer looking at him. “You don’t think that was selfish?”

“That—”

“It’s okay if you do.”

“—no,” Steve interrupts, finding the question utterly baffling. “Because you were _right_. I was the one being reckless and selfish and not thinking it through, what all of that would mean. I was the one only thinking of myself and my career and being willing to damn the consequences without even considering how much worse they would be for you, which my ma would box my ears for because that’s not how a relationship should work. And I—Christ, Maria, _I’m_ sorry.”

“Relationships shouldn’t work by one person giving up everything they want for the other person either,” Maria points out, and he shrugs.

“Sometimes there isn’t a point of compromise,” he replies. “Sometimes you just have to wait until circumstances change. Which is what I’m doing.”

She hums thoughtfully and sets her glass aside, glancing down at where his fingers are still folded around hers. Flushing, Steve pulls his hand back and looks away.

“What if I wanted to be?” Maria asks.

“Wanted to be what?”

When he glances over, she’s closer than she was before—when did she get so close?—close enough that he can’t help noticing the way her throat works when she swallows. The barest shift and she’s in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and Steve can barely breathe.

“Selfish,” she murmurs.

“Maria…” If it were a year ago, maybe he wouldn’t care. If they’d never had this conversation or any of the others, maybe he could kiss her now without thinking about the potential consequences. If it were a different time even—one where she hadn’t been drinking, where her father hadn’t just died—maybe he could. But he can’t.

“...we can’t.”

Maria’s hands curl around his shoulders and squeeze once as she takes a shaky breath. She leans in, her mouth centimeters away from his, then sighs. 

“I know,” she admits. “Fuck, I hate this.”

“I love you.”

The words slip out before he can stop them and there’s no calling them back, no pretending that he didn’t just say the one thing he’s been telling himself for months that he shouldn’t say. 

Maria doesn’t say anything. Instead, she makes a small sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, and then her hands are in his hair and for one breathtaking, perfect moment, she’s kissing him.

And then, the next, she’s sliding off his lap and smoothing down her hair and putting distance between them again. Because that’s what there has to be. Distance. At least for now. 

“I should go,” she acknowledges. 

Steve nods once and moves to get up, but Maria shakes her head. 

“If you do that, I won’t.”

Despite himself, despite the whole mess of a situation they’re in, he smiles.

“Okay.”

She makes it as far as the door before she stops again.

“About the ambassadorship…”

“You don’t have to explain—”

“I do,” she says. “Because you should know, I didn’t tell Natasha I’d take the job because I don’t want you. I agreed to take it because I do.”

She’s out the door before he can say another word, which is perhaps for the best. Because if she’d stayed a moment longer, he might have forgotten why he needed to let her go to begin with. 

_I love you,_ Steve thinks once more. Then, he leans over to turn off the lamp and goes to bed. For once, he sleeps easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! New chapter! If any of you are still reading this or any of the other works in this universe, you have my sincerest apologies for the long waits. I've mentioned it once or twice on tumblr, but given the current political climate as someone who has to deal with law and politics daily, it's incredibly difficult for me to find the energy and mental space for this AU without just feeling, well, depressed. That said, thank you all for sticking with me and for loving all these fools with me. It means a lot.


	7. Drought Conditions

During her last two months in the White House, Maria is fairly certain she hasn’t had to work so hard to be a consummate professional in her life. Her entire career has been spent working primarily with men, and some of them were even attractive. Hell, some of them had even said they loved her and meant it, which mostly just made her feel awkward and uncomfortable because the men _she_ had loved...well, they weren’t the types of men who said it out loud and in so many words.

But Steve is.

_”Fuck, I hate this.”_

_“I love you.”_

It plays over and over in her head, whether she’s washing dishes or in the middle of a meeting. Sometimes, she’ll look at him in a briefing and notice the way the sun hits his hair or the laugh lines around his eyes and it’ll crash into her with a force that steals her breath.

_”I hate this.”_

_“I love you.”_

Maria could smack herself for ending up in this situation. Because she knows, without a doubt, that Steve means it. And God help her, she loves him too.

(She won’t say it back. She can’t, because if she did she’d never leave. But she does)

_I love you._

She doesn’t go see him after her confirmation hearing, if only because a hearing, a vote, makes it real. She’s leaving.

She’s leaving _him._

It’s more difficult than she thought it would be.

(If they were different people or if things between them had developed differently, maybe he wouldn’t accept her resignation. Maybe they would fight about it. Maybe she would kiss him again the way she had the first time—all pent-up frustration and want. But they aren’t those people. They know better)

_I love you._

When Maria does resign from her position as National Security Adviser, two days before she’s meant to leave, Steve’s fingers brush hers deliberately as he takes the envelope from her.

“It’s been an honor, Mr. President,” she says quietly, filing away the way his mouth quirks into the faintest of smiles.

“Congratulations on your new post, ambassador,” he replies.

There are other things he could say. Other things she could say as well for that matter. But it’s the middle of the day and they’re in a room with a seal emblazoned on the carpet like a brand and Natasha’s office is on the other side of the far door…

(The look in his eyes is soft)

“Try not to cause any international incidents,” Steve jokes, breaking the extended silence. Despite herself, Maria laughs.

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you, sir? Or do I need to remind you about Rollins and the Ukrainian ambassador’s daughter?”

“I thought we agreed never to mention that again.”

“No, _you_ agreed to never mention it again. I declined to comment, specifically so I could reserve the right to mock you in the future.”

His bright grin and the shadows his lashes cast on his cheeks in the dying daylight tug fiercely at her heartstrings.

“How about this?” Steve teases. “You try not to turn the UN upside down and I’ll try not to punch Pierce during any of our debates this year.” 

Maria makes a face at the mention of the Alabama Senator. He’d been the only vote against her confirmation after she’d politely snapped at him for insisting on referring to her as “Miss Hill” instead of Commander during her hearing.

“You think it’ll be him then?” She asks.

“Most likely,” Steve replies. “We’ll see during the primaries, but Matt and Bucky seem to think so.”

“Sir?” The buzz of the intercom makes them both jump. “Your 4:30 is here.”

Dismay passes over Steve’s face and Maria reaches out without thinking, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. He glances down at their hands and clears his throat as he squeezes back.

“Right,” he says, reluctantly pulling away. “I suppose I should—”

“You should,” Maria agrees quietly when he trails off.

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it, clearly at war with himself.

_Don’t say it_ , she thinks.

“Have a safe flight, ambassador,” he says finally, and although this was always her choice, her stomach sinks just a little as she nods.

“Mr. President.”

In the hallway, she leans against the wall for a long moment and just breathes.

_I love you._

* * *

The next few months are a blur—New York, Geneva, Vienna, Nairobi—rarely more than a few days in one place at a time. Maria hardly stops moving (or working) long enough to catch her breath, which isn’t the worst thing. She’s good at diplomacy, at this work. And besides, if she doesn’t stop long enough, she can’t think about missing Steve.

And oh, does she miss him. It’s sappy and ridiculous and she’s judged herself more than once for it, but she misses him like she’d miss a limb. She misses their chess games, their nights alone where she could shed Commander Hill and just be Maria. She misses his voice. Hell, for all that they’ve kissed not even a handful of times, she even misses his mouth.

She misses _him_. And if she thinks about it too much, it drives her up the wall. So she tries not to think about it. 

Technically, she could call him. She hasn’t stopped being able to report to him just because she deals primarily with the Secretary of State now. But she doesn’t want to call to talk about work, she wants to talk about _anything_ but work, which is where the problem is. An official call would be one thing. A personal one she’d have to arrange, and she isn’t quite up to asking for help with that yet. 

A month. She’ll be back in D.C. in a month. She can wait.

“Ma’am?” 

Maria looks up from her New York desk and blinks hard to clear the exhaustion from her eyes.

“Is it time for the floor vote already?” She asks.

“Not for another hour, ma’am. But this came for you from the White House.”

The clerk holds out a large, padded envelope and she takes it with curious hands.

“Thank you.”

It claims to be from Natasha, but Maria doubts that as soon as she opens the envelope and pulls out a sketchbook. The first few pages are full of rough, half-finished thoughts—a hand here, the curve of an ear there, the line of an arm—smudged and scattered, but still clearly skilled.

And then she turns to the next page to find her own face staring back at her and nearly gasps.

_Steve_.

The whole rest of the book is the same way. Different backgrounds, different angles, different colors—sometimes just her face, other times more—but every page is her. He doesn’t shy away from the shadows that persist under her eyes or the lines in her skin, but the images are beautiful and breathtaking in a way she’s never thought of herself. Not embellishments or fantasies, but she knows as surely as she knows her own name that this is how he sees her.

When Maria finally tears her eyes away from the book, she sees the note that fell out of the package when she opened it. To her surprise, it’s in Natasha’s writing after all.

_You’re welcome. Call me._

Maria reaches for the phone without a second thought. 

“Is he free?” She asks when Natasha picks up. The other woman laughs.

“Not right now, but if you call tomorrow at ten I’ll make sure you have a secure line,” she promises. “You got it then?”

Maria glances back down at the open book, tracing the edge of a sketched sleeve with the lightest of touches, not wanting to smudge the image.

“I got it,” she acknowledges. “Did he—?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t even know it’s gone,” Natasha replies. “But he left it out yesterday and I decided that just because he’s apparently determined to sit around pining doesn’t mean the rest of us need to. Never let it be said I’m not good to him.”

Maria bites back a smile. “Are you going to tell him you sent it to me?”

“I could,” Natasha muses. “But then, that would deny me the pleasure of seeing him blush like a schoolboy when you tell him you’ve seen it.”

“Thought you said you were good to him.”

“Well, not _always_. That would be boring.”

Maria laughs as she turns another page. 

“How are things?”

“Eh. Politics,” Natasha says. “It’s all the same in the end. Something’s usually on fire, we just try to make sure it isn’t our fault. But I’ll say this—you couldn’t pay me enough to do Darcy’s job.”

_Not enough money in the world…_ “I think I’d rather go to war,” Maria replies.

“Exactly.” 

They talk for a few more minutes before there’s a knock at Maria’s door and the clerk appears again, pointing at his watch. 

“Natasha, I have to go, but...thank you. Really.”

“Don’t mention it. Remember—tomorrow night.”

“I will.”

Then, the line clicks off and with one last look at the sketchbook, Maria pushes back her chair and goes to work.

* * *

The next day, Steve’s about ready to climb the walls. 

“Natasha, I’m tired,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time in fifteen minutes. “It’s late and tomorrow is going to be a long day. Can’t this wait?”

They’re at least in the residence instead of the Oval Office, but that’s almost worse given that his bed is only steps away and he can practically hear it calling.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” Natasha replies. “We’re losing votes on the education bill and we need to figure out how to do damage control.”

Steve scrubs at his face and takes a breath instead of snapping at her, letting it out abruptly when the phone rings. 

“Fuck, what now?”

Except...when he cuts his eyes over to Natasha, there’s a smirk hovering around her mouth as she gathers up her folders. 

“You’re going to want to take that, sir,” she says. “Oh, and for the record, the bill is fine. Have a good night.”

“Natasha—”

Her smirk only widens at his clear confusion. “Just answer the phone. Sir.”

With a wary glance, Steve reaches for it. “Hello?”

“...hi, stranger.”

Maria’s voice washes over him and the frustration and tension he’d been carrying drains away. For half a moment, he looks at Natasha again where she’s hovering by the door, her smirk having softened into something quiet and pleased.

_Thank you,_ he mouths. She tips her head in acknowledgment.

“Maria,” Steve sighs, turning his attention back to the call. “Christ, it’s good to hear your voice. Is everything—are you—?”

“I’m fine,” she replies. “Everything’s fine. Although I—I miss you.”

It’s said in a rush, the words nearly blurring together, but Steve smiles as he settles back in his chair.

“You do?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“I miss you, too.”

The door opens and shuts as Natasha leaves, but Steve hardly notices because Maria’s voice is in his ear and it sounds like home.

(He’s wanted to call her every day since she left, but he also wanted her to have space. It needed to be her choice, so he’s glad he let it be, but he’s so glad he could burst—)

After that, things get easier. Not perfect, but easier. They talk once a week about everything and nothing and he could swear those calls are what keeps him sane as the year drags on into primaries and the National Convention and everything else that comes with an election year. 

And then there’s France.

* * *

_July, 2016_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Just answer the question, sir,” Foggy says from his fake podium.

“It’s a bullshit question.”

“It’s a perfectly legitimate question and one that you might get in the debate next month, so if you could—”

Steve glares and Foggy cuts himself off. 

_Christ._

Debate camp. When Natasha had first suggested they go off to Camp David to spend a few days on debate prep, he hadn’t agreed. And then they’d all kept bringing it up until he’d given in. Now, he’s in his own special hell where Bucky pretends to be Alexander Fucking Pierce and both of them have to answer inane questions from dawn until dusk. 

“You know, this is what I hate about big election years,” Steve says, and across the room Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Everyone is so busy running for office that they forget about the part where they’re supposed to actually be _governing._ ”

“That may be true, sir, but we still need an answer from you on taxes.”

Steve swears again under his breath and glances at the clock. 

“Fifteen minutes,” he replies. “I’m taking a walk and when I get back, I’ll have your damn answer. Does that work for everyone?”

“Sure,” Bucky says before anyone else can. “Take fifteen.”

Without another word, Steve pushes off from his own podium and walks out, rolling his shoulders to work some of the tension out of them. He hates campaigns—always has. Hates feeling like a trained monkey, poured into a suit and told what to say, where to go, who to talk to. Hates that there are at least twelve different people in the room behind him, all of whom with a different idea about how he’s going to win this election, when all he’s ever wanted is to be authentic. 

(His fingers itch for a phone)

Despite what he’d told everyone, he doesn’t go for a walk. Or, at least, not much of one. Instead, he just escapes to the kitchen of the main house and revels in the solitude as he drains a glass of water. From his position by the counter, he can see into the next room and the muted television set turned to CNN. It’s pure habit that causes his gaze to track the captions and the scrolling banners of breaking news.

_Bombing in France leaves three confirmed dead—president, UN Ambassador Maria Hill in critical condition—_

The glass slips from his grasp and shatters. 

_Maria._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler and I do apologize for the cliffhanger, but it would have been a lot more disjointed if I'd tried to wrap up everything in one go. For the record, Maria is _fine_ because I believe in happy endings, but I also believe in equal opportunity angst and happened to be watching one of my favorite TWW eps the other day which was...inspirational. So. Yes. Just trust me.


	8. The Stormy Present

For a moment, everything fades away—Steve’s blood rushes in his ears as his eyes stay glued to the screen, waiting, praying for it to say something else, to tell him more, to tell him anything—

“Sir!” 

The door slams open with a bang and his surroundings rush back in. Steve turns away and grips the counter, not wholly convinced he isn’t going to be sick. 

“Mr. President—”

“Sir—”

Too many voices, too many people trying to speak at once, and it’s too much. Far too much. When Steve holds up a hand, they quiet, and he takes a shaky breath before facing them, his gaze tracking over each face until he lands on the one he wants to see.

Darcy looks stricken.

“Did you know?” He asks.

“ _No_ ,” she says. “Sir, I swear, I only just got the call. CNN has media contacts in France, that—that’s how they knew first. I wouldn’t have…”

_Let me waste time figuring out ten word answers instead of telling me?_

“You should call Natasha as soon as you can,” Bucky cuts in when Darcy trails off. “She and Melinda May are probably already coordinating with the French Ambassador and PM to find out what happened today. You should be part of those conversations.”

His head is spinning. 

“No, I can’t, I—” Steve rakes a hand through his hair. “I have to go.”

“Back to D.C?”

“To _France_!” His voice is too loud, louder than he’d meant it to be, but he doesn’t have time for phone calls and strategy sessions and diplomacy. He needs to _go_ , he needs to move, he needs—

An uncomfortable silence fills the room, and as usual, Matt is the one to break it.

“You can’t do that, sir,” he says.

“I have to—”

“We don’t know what happened,” Bucky interrupts. “There was an attack on foreign soil that injured American personnel, but we don’t know who planned it, who carried it out—hell, we don’t know whether Maria was a target or just unlucky. And until we do, you cannot go haring off to another continent when we don’t know whether or not you’re in danger as well.”

_She could die…_

“Natasha wants us all back in D.C,” Darcy says quietly, looking up from her phone. “She says they need you, sir.”

“I can’t—”

“You can,” Darcy insists, but instead of reassuring him, it hits a nerve.

“I can’t!” Steve repeats. “You don’t _understand_ —”

“Yes, I do!” Darcy is pale, but her eyes are hard as she crosses her arms. She drops her voice back to a normal volume as soon as she can, but her momentary loss of composure was enough to stun him into silence. 

“I do understand, sir,” she continues. “I know _exactly_ how you’re feeling right now. Do you think I didn’t want to burn the entire world down when Matt was shot? Or scream, or cry, or break shit, or bury myself under a pile of blankets and pretend like the man I loved wasn’t dying?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Steve sees Matt catch the hem of her shirt between his fingertips for the briefest of moments, and his heart sinks as he thinks back to that night, back to him and Maria in a hospital room talking around this thing between them. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, and Darcy shakes her head and squeezes his arm.

“When the world falls apart, we have to go to work, Mr. President,” she says quietly. “Because there are things that are more important than us.”

Steve swallows hard around the lump in his throat and closes his eyes. 

“What if she—?” He can’t finish the thought.

“She won’t,” Darcy replies.

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s got a hell of a lot to live for.”

Steve takes a deep breath.

_Okay. Let’s get to work._

* * *

“His name is Grant Ward,” Melinda May says, fifteen hours later in the Situation Room. Two pictures appear on the screen—one, a mugshot from the French authorities took when they arrested him, the other a surveillance photo from the British SIS. 

“He’s American?” Steve asks, flipping through the dossier in front of him. 

May nods. “Former military, dishonorably discharged in 2010. He fell off the grid, but the Brits found him six months ago when SIS started looking into an international white supremacist organization called HYDRA. The National Police picked him up last night after he tried to sneak into a secure facility to doctor security footage from the bombing area.”

“Has he said anything about the bombing?”

“He’s said enough,” Natasha fills in. “The French President was the primary target, not Maria, but apparently these people didn’t care one way or another whether she got caught in the blast as well. It only helped their agenda.”

Steves jaw clenches at that, although he tries not to let it get to him. It isn’t any better or worse that she was an afterthought, but it feels insulting somehow.

“And who is this?” He asks, pointing to a picture of a different man.

“Armand Sharif,” May replies. “From the footage Ward had with him, it appears HYDRA was planning to frame Sharif for the attack.”

“Why?”

“He’s a refugee, sir,” she says. “Besides which, Ambassador Hill was meant to be heading to Gaza ahead of potential peace talks and Sharif is Palestinian by birth. Two birds…”

“So if they’d succeeded, it would have inflamed anti-refugee sentiment in France, not to mention everywhere else, and also would have put us in an impossible situation where Israel and Palestine are concerned,” Steve sums up. _Christ._ It’s a good plan, he has to hand it to them. The bastards.

“That’s the long and short of it, sir, yes.”

“Right.” Steve sighs and closes the file. “Okay, what’s next?”

“French authorities are prepared to hand Ward over to us as soon as they’re done with him,” Natasha says. “Unfortunately, neither the CIA nor SIS have clear enough information about HYDRA as a whole to make any real moves on that front.”

“It’s a waiting game, then.”

“Seems like it.”

Fucking hell. Well, if they’d wanted his attention, they’ve got it. 

“Alright. Thanks, everyone.”

“Sir.”

Steve doesn’t plan on going far when he leaves the room—just far enough to find a chair to collapse into after the stress of the day—but when Natasha follows him out, he ends up taking an extra lap around the West Wing before they end up on his balcony.

“Are you okay?” Natasha finally asks.

Steve gives her an incredulous look and she holds up her hands. “Sorry. Stupid question.”

“Last I heard, she was stable enough that they were considering moving her to Ramstein,” he says.

“We have good people in Germany,” Natasha replies. “She’ll be in the best hands.”

“She hasn’t woken up.” Steve curls his hands around the rail and looks out across the grounds. “It’s early, I know that, but I—all I can think is what if she doesn’t?”

“That’s a pretty normal way to feel, sir.” When he glances over at her, she shrugs. “Were you expecting me to have advice? I don’t. But I do know that we’ll find the rest of the bastards who did this regardless, and anything else...well, we’ll cross those bridges if we come to them.”

“I put her up for that job—”

“Don’t.” Natasha cuts him off sharply. “Don’t do that to yourself, Steve. You made choices, I made choices, Maria made choices, but the only people at fault for this are the people who planned it and carried it out. None of this is on us. Got that?”

Steve doesn’t manage a full smile at that, but he comes close. “You know, you’re the second woman to yell at me today?”

“Good,” she replies. “Since Maria isn’t here to do it herself, someone has to. You know how pissed she would be at you for half the bullshit that’s come out of your mouth today?”

He winces. Now that he can think a little clearer...yeah. He does. 

“Reckless, irresponsible fool?” He suggests.

“The least of what she’d say.” Natasha knocks into his side and pushes off the railing. “You’re lucky I like you enough that I won’t tell her when she wakes up so she can yell at you herself.”

“Appreciate it.”

“You should.” She turns to go, then looks back at him over her shoulder for a moment. “We’ll figure out a way to get you to Germany, you know. We just need time to think through the logistics.”

He hadn’t brought the subject up again after his initial meltdown, but at that, his heart skips.

“Yeah?” 

“We’re not heartless.” Natasha shrugs and Steve’s so grateful he can hardly breathe. “You’ll know as soon as we work it out.”

“Natasha… _thank you._ ”

“Anytime, sir.”

* * *

_August, 2016_

Everything hurts. That’s the first thing Maria notices when she wakes up. Even before she opens her eyes, a deep ache thrums through her entire body—between that and the heaviness of her eyelids, she seriously considers falling back into the waiting arms of sleep. 

She remembers getting into a car with the French President, turning her head to say something...and then the world flipped and there were screams and the sound of breaking glass. She’d hit her head...she doesn’t recall anything else. 

It takes an excruciating effort to open her eyes, and even when she does, she almost closes them immediately from the brightness of the hospital lights, but something pulls her focus from the corner of the room.

_Steve._

_Steve?_

Her throat is sandpaper and her mouth is dry enough that she may as well have been chewing on cotton, but she manages to force out a questioning sound.

Steve’s head snaps up from his place in a small, plastic chair, and relief floods his haggard features.

“ _Maria._ ”

Maria coughs when she tries to speak, but in an instant he’s at her side with a cup of water. After a few sips, both her mouth and her head are clearer and she blinks at him in surprise.

“Where—what—?”

“You were in an accident,” Steve explains. “You’re in the hospital at Ramstein Air Base. You’ve been out for...several days.”

“You’re here.” _What are you doing here?_

Steve looks away, busying himself with refilling her water glass and straightening the corner of her blanket. 

“You almost died,” he says, as if that answers everything. Which, when she considers it, it does.

“You came to Germany because I was in the hospital?”

“I—” Steve blows out a breath and finally looks back at her. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

Her whole body hurts, but that has nothing to do with why her eyes blur at his response. She aches and she’s tired, and if she thinks about it she can still hear echoes of screams and feel fear like ice in her veins. But he’s _here_ , he _came_ , even though he must have a thousand and one other things to do and places to be, and for a moment she’s so overwhelmed she can hardly think.

“Maria?” Steve’s voice is tinged with panic. “Are you okay? Should I call a nurse? You—”

Maria shakes her head and he cuts off when she grabs his nearest hand as tightly as she can manage. 

“I’m fine,” she assures. “I just—”

_I could have died and I would have never told you how much I love you._

“Are you sure? I could get someone—”

“Steve.” It’s quiet, but he settles as though it had the force of a shout. Maria smiles faintly, ignoring the way it pulls painfully at the cuts on her face. 

(She’s not sure she’s ever been _fussed_ over before. She’s not sure she would have allowed it from anyone before. But this is Steve and he’s earnest and worried and desperately in love with her for some reason she really can’t fathom, so it’s rather sweet)

Moving gingerly, she shifts over, making sure not to tug at any of the wires and tubes that are attached to her before she pulls back the blanket. He doesn’t argue, settling carefully into the bed next to her and moving his arm behind her shoulders so she can use his chest as a pillow. It’s not a bed meant for two people at all, but Maria couldn’t care less.

“Better?” Steve asks quietly once she’s tucked against his side. Maria hums and closes her eyes.

“I love you, you know,” she murmurs. She’s half-asleep once more by the time he presses a kiss to her hair, but she isn’t so far gone that she misses his response.

“I love you, too.”

There’s so much more they both could say, and there are still plenty of complications and things to do, but for at least a moment, Maria doesn’t care about any of that. Not the upcoming election, not the bombing, not the press, not her injuries. For a moment, in a hospital bed, she lets herself be a normal, average woman, in love with a normal, average man. 

And she sleeps.


	9. A Good Day

Maria hates physical therapy. Which, if she’d thought about it, she probably could have told anyone even before she started. 

It’s not the pain or the work that bothers her though. It’s the feeling that comes along with it. The unsettling notion as she re-trains her muscles after spending weeks in a bed that it doesn’t only apply to her body. And more, that there are parts of her that don’t want to go back to how they were before. 

(Those are the parts that shifted completely the day she drifted off in Steve’s arms, her fingers curled into his sweater as though daring someone to try and take the moment from her. Trying to push them back into place now...it hurts)

She starts working again in mid-September as the campaigns begin to heat up. And the work is distracting and she’s as good at it as ever, even if sometimes it takes a little longer to think through a problem. But it’s also...hollow. Hollow and unsatisfying and it drives her up the wall because she _asked_ for this. She _wanted_ this. She’s reached the highest point she ever expected to reach in her career—she should be _thrilled_. 

Except she isn’t anymore. She’s just tired. And she misses Steve. 

_”Everything I’ve worked so hard to build for myself would be gone in an instant. And I’m not willing to give that up. Not even for you.”_

Sometimes, during PT or right after, Maria thinks about that conversation. She thinks about all of her conversations with Steve, but that’s what comes to mind most often. 

_I’m not willing to give that up._

She meant it when she said it, and for all the months after. And yet...she said that before her father died, before _she_ almost died. Now it’s been over a year and she isn’t sure she still does.

_Sometimes you just have to wait until circumstances change._

* * *

Steve wins the election. Maria isn’t surprised. Alexander Pierce is a good speaker and not a bad debater, but Steve—Steve is just _good_. Good and honest and real. Other candidates play the game of politics and do or say whatever they need to so they can win, and it’s not that Steve doesn’t, but he also means every word he says. Steve _cares_. And, of course, people respond. 

It’s why, a little selfishly, she hadn’t wanted him to run again. Because he was always going to win. How could he not? 

“Did you get the dresses I sent over for the inaugural balls?” 

Maria cradles the phone against her ear and leans back in her chair as she gives the rack of gowns across the room a dubious glance. 

“You know, I’m capable of picking out my own clothes, Natasha,” she replies. 

“Of course you are, but I was choosing mine anyway so this is easier. Which ones are you leaning towards?”

“The black one, and that’s it,” Maria says firmly. “I’m not wearing five different gowns in one night, Nat, that’s ridiculous. I don’t care how many inaugural balls there are.”

_No one is going to care that much about what I wear anyway. It’s not like I’m—_ She cuts that thought right off before she can finish it.

Natasha mutters something under her breath that sounds like _spoilsport_ , but doesn’t argue like Maria expected. A few minutes later, just as the call is about to end, Maria takes a breath and quietly says, “Hey, Nat?”

The other woman stops in the middle of her sentence. “Yes?”

“Hypothetically, if I were thinking of...stepping down…” Maria’s throat closes up at the silence on the other line, but it only lasts a moment before Natasha replies, her voice soft.

“Hypothetically, I may already have a short list of potential replacements.”

“Does Steve know?” Maria asks. “About this hypothetical list?”

Natasha hums over the line. “I haven’t thought it necessary to inform him yet,” she says. “Although, if that’s a conversation I should have with him, I think the two of you should have one first.”

“Hypothetically,” Maria tacks on to the end of Natasha’s response, even though her pulse is racing just from allowing herself to _consider_ any of this. 

“Of course.” She can hear the smile in Natasha’s voice. “Although, while we’re speaking in hypotheticals, you should know that if the President were to go public with a relationship, it would be much easier to spin than it would have been a year ago. Or, so I’ve been told.” 

It’s a simple statement of fact, but it’s also more than that. So much more so that Maria spends every day until the inauguration trying and failing to get it out of her head. 

* * *

_January, 2017_

Whoever decided the presidential inauguration should be outside in the middle of winter should be drawn and quartered. At least, that’s always been Steve’s opinion. Yes, he grew up in New York, and yes, he got through it the first time around, but that doesn’t mean he’s eager to repeat the experience. Especially not when his staff is still debating the day of whether going without a jacket will make him look more presidential. 

“You know, William Henry Harrison died of pneumonia after his inauguration,” Steve points out, finally cutting the arguments off as they all turn to look at him. “And if the next words out of anyone’s mouth are _But that was 1841_ , you’re all fired.”

(He’s mostly kidding. Mostly. But he does see Bucky deliberately close his mouth out of the corner of his eye)

It’s still freezing, even with a jacket, but Steve makes it through, trying to burn every piece of it into his mind. It’s the last swearing in he’ll ever have for the last job he’ll ever hold, the first speech of an unthinkable amount that he’ll give over the next four years. He has the words of the address memorized, and as he speaks he allows his mind to wander. He thinks about his childhood in a cramped studio in Brooklyn, about the winters he spent constantly ill. He thinks about his mother, and art school, and the military, about losing Bucky and finding him again. He thinks about law school and how much he struggled at first, the fear of failure never far from his mind. That, at least, hasn’t ever completely left him. 

His Senate campaigns, his 2012 run, his first term—so much can happen in four years. So much _has_ happened. And there’s so much more to come in the next four.

Somehow, that thought isn’t quite as daunting as it was the first time around.

* * *

As it turns out, Steve’s fairly sure he would rather give a hundred inaugural addresses outside in the middle of winter than deal with the inaugural balls. This time around, there are five—two fewer than his first term, but somehow still an excessive amount—and he is not at all looking forward to being stuffed into black tie attire for what is bound to be a very long evening.

He’s still internally cursing the powers that be for the existence of inaugural balls when he catches sight of Maria across the room at the third. 

Steve promptly forgets any and all complaints he may have had in mind, and if he’s not entirely sure what he says to excuse himself from his prior conversation, well, he doesn’t think he can be blamed for that. 

(She’d been in layers and her dress uniform at the inauguration itself and they hadn’t gotten a chance to speak. Now though, he’s suddenly realizing he’s never seen her in a gown. Clearly, a grave oversight)

“Ambassador Hill,” he greets, hoping his voice doesn’t betray how his mouth goes dry at her bare shoulders. From the way she smiles, it’s clear he’s failed. 

“Mr. President,” Maria replies.

“Dance with me?” 

“Not afraid I’ll step on your toes?” She asks, even as she takes his arm.

“Somehow I think that’s more likely the other way around,” Steve replies, but the music shifts to something slower as they step onto the dance floor. 

He’s done enough dancing tonight that they don’t draw more than cursory glances from other couples, but to him Maria is by far the most important partner he’s had. For months he’s ached with the need to touch her and this is the closest they’ve been. Even though his hands don’t wander anywhere that might be unprofessional, having her so close goes a long way toward soothing that ache. 

“Do you like the dress?” Maria asks quietly. Steve’s hand flexes on her waist as he bites back _I’d like to take it off with my teeth._

“I think you know I do,” he replies. 

“Maybe,” she acknowledges. “But it’s nice to hear anyway.”

Steve laughs and leans in closer. 

“You look stunning,” he murmurs. “I mean, you always look stunning, but I do love the dress.”

Maria barely restrains a shiver when his fingers deliberately splay wide and when he leans back, her eyes are dark. 

“Can we talk? After...all this is over?”

Talk, not talk. Either. Both. If it means being alone with her, of course.

“Meet me in the residence?” Steve suggests. “I’ll be a few more hours, but—”

“Yes.” Maria cuts him off, and he can’t help his smile. 

The song ends and he lets her go, but he spends the next three hours buzzing with want and anticipation and _love_. 

When he finally escapes the last ball around 1AM, he half-expects Maria to be asleep. But when he opens his door and steps through, she stands up from the couch, still in her dress although she’s kicked off her heels. 

Four strides to close the distance, and then Steve’s kissing her and her hands unbutton his shirt as she pulls him back towards the bedroom. 

There’s very little talking. 

Afterwards, he holds her close and it’s quiet in the room as she traces slow patterns on his chest with her fingertips. It strikes him again that this is more than likely the only time they’ll have this until he’s finished, and his arms tighten around her waist enough that her fingers stall and she pulls back enough to look at his face. 

“Steve?” 

He isn’t sure what he wants to say when he opens his mouth, but what comes out it, “You would hate being First Lady.”

He expects her to tense or to change the subject. He doesn’t expect her to laugh. So, of course, that’s exactly what she does. 

“Oh?” Maria replies, a small smile on her lips. “Is that so? Hell of an assumption.”

Steve nearly chokes on his tongue as her response opens a door in his mind that he’s been firmly trying to keep shut. 

“I—wouldn’t you?”

Maria hums and curls closer, resuming her tracing. 

“I would hate event planning,” she acknowledges. “But, there are staff who could do that. I would hate the media calling me Mrs. Rogers even if I didn’t change my name, but they would do that even if we waited. I would hate having my outfits and appearance scrutinized as though my lipstick could cause an international incident, but that already happens now…”

She pauses before continuing, and Steve can barely breathe. 

“I—I wouldn’t hate the platform. What I could do with it, what I could say. I wouldn’t hate that. And...I’d have you. I’d have this. Every day. No hiding.”

“Your career…” It’s not that Steve wants to rock the boat when Maria is saying so much, so many impossible things, but he can’t help it. Two fingers settle over his lips, cutting him off mid-sentence, which, honestly is probably for the best. 

“I almost died,” Maria says. “It put a lot of things in perspective. I’m stepping down from my current post regardless of...well. How this conversation goes.”

In the next moment, her lips replace her fingers and she kisses him soft and slow. When she pulls away, she settles back into her previous position, head on his chest, fingertips starting up a new random pattern on his skin. Steve can’t think, and the silence between them stretches on for so long that if it weren’t for her touch, he might have assumed she’d fallen asleep. Finally, Maria breaks it again.

“Ask me,” she says, her voice low enough that he almost misses it. 

Steve swallows hard and looks at her. “Do you mean it?”

“Yeah.” Maria presses her lips to his shoulder and it’s impossible for him to miss the way they curve against his skin when she smiles. “Ask me.”

He stills her hand and laces their fingers. He hadn’t let himself think about this, hadn’t even considered it because once he started he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop and that was a road to madness. But she’s in his bed and it’s what she wants and he doesn’t have a ring, doesn’t have the words for the sort of long, romantic speech this moment deserves—

_Ask me._

“Maria Hill, will you marry me?”

There’s only a fraction of a second between the question and her response, but in that instant, Steve can see everything that’s gotten them to this point—every fight, every kiss, every too-careful handshake—and he wants nothing more than to turn the page and start a new chapter.

“Yes.”

* * *

They don’t announce their engagement. Instead, they get married at Camp David in April with just the secret service, senior staff, and a justice of the peace present. At dinner after, Darcy tells Steve that her wedding present will be not quitting to get out of dealing with the impending media storm, but she’s smiling when she says it, so he thinks that’s just her way of saying she’s happy for them. 

There’s no real time to celebrate—they’re due back in D.C. in two days because there’s always work to be done—but Steve doesn’t mind that as much when it means Maria will be coming back with him. 

“You know,” he says that night as Maria brushes her fingers over his wedding ring, “on Election Night—the first time around—I thought I’d made the worst mistake of my life. I had no idea what the hell I was doing.”

“If you say it wasn’t a mistake because it brought me to you, I’ll divorce you right now,” Maria interrupts, but she’s smiling when she looks up at him. 

Steve laughs.

(He doesn’t say it. If he thinks it, well…)

“I love you,” he says instead.

“You’re a sap.”

“And yet you married me.”

Maria rolls over to straddle him, pressing her hands into the pillows at either side of his head. Her ring catches the light just before she kisses him.

“I suppose I love you a little bit, too.” 

It’s not perfect. But it’s theirs. Their chapter, their book, their life. 

And that sounds pretty good to Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW. It's done! Thank you everyone for sticking with me on this journey through this random AU and loving these fools as much as I do. <3
> 
> ~wings

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone was wondering about Steve's timeline, it's something like this:  
> Born July 4, 1968  
> NYU: 1986-1990  
> Military: 1990-1993  
> Law school: 1993-1996  
> Public Defender: 1996-2000  
> Senator: 2000-2006, 2006-2012  
> President: 2012-2016, (spoiler alert) 2016-2020


End file.
